ad infinitum
by kohee
Summary: The truth is, he's in love with her. But there's nothing he can do about it. Barba/Benson


one-shot; _ad infinitum  
_ pairing: rafael barba/olivia benson  
word count: 5774 words  
note: Happy very belated birthday to the wonderful **barsonaddict**! Follows the canon, with some non-canon diversions.

* * *

 _ad infinitum; forever and ever and ever more_

* * *

 _Not everything done in the dark is shameful._

 _The truth is, I'd do it again._

He walks up the steps resolutely, to accept whatever decision that fate (and the DA) has decided for him. At the top of the steps, he turns back, and looks at her. She holds his gaze with hers, her eyes full of emotions he can't quite decipher, her hand resting over her heart.

And he feels it in his veins, simmering, boiling, almost as unavoidable as breathing. It's an unspoken truth, a truth he does not speak of often, not even to himself (because he tries not to). He tries to make it invisible, but yet, sometimes it is so tangible, so _obvious_ , that Barba wonders if other people is able to perceive it for what it really is, as clear as day.

He doesn't know what is going to happen next. They may have really seen their last case together, him and her, and if that is what it is, he will just have to accept it.

He's aware that the DA is waiting, and he has to go in soon, but he doesn't want to break this bridge they have, their eyes on each other, brown on green, as the rest of New York pass and go between them. He wants to bask in the truth of this moment, the truth that he does not allow himself to think of, he wants to let it overwhelm him, bit by bit, until there's nothing left of him, but this.

But he can't.

So he turns away, and walks into the building.

* * *

The truth is, he's in love with her. He has been for years.

But there's nothing he can do about it, except trying to hide it, and pretend that he isn't.

* * *

He has heard of her even before he met her, of course he has. Sergeant Olivia Benson is legendary in the NYPD – her iron-will, her determination, her fire. When he had put in the request to transfer from Brooklyn, he was hoping he would get the assignment in Manhattan SVU. The stars must be aligned, for he got exactly what he wanted.

He still remembers that first meeting, of course he remembers. It's the day his life changes, after all.

He's feeling buoyant and triumphant after yet another victory, and there's an extra bounce to his step as he approaches Captain Harris.

"Bring your daughters to work day?" he snarks, extending his hand. Sergeant Benson takes his hand in an almost grudging manner, the corner of her eye twitching, and he smirks to himself. He knows that he has to have the upper hand with the detectives – it worked in Brooklyn and it will work here.

The first case he prosecutes with them is tricky. A witness and a victim that is dishonest and not forthcoming often makes things worse and complicates the case, but Barba is not just any prosecutor. This is his first case with Manhattan SVU and he damn well is going to win this.

And he does, not without his usual controversy, but he does, he wins, and as the jury hands down the verdict, he looks back to Sergeant Benson, who gave him an imperceptible nod of approval.

He doesn't know then, that these little looks, these little nods, will be his fuel in court from then on.

* * *

Barba doesn't fall in love easily. Oh, he likes women, and mostly everything that comes with them, but throughout his life, he is too busy trying to prove _something_ as he fights his way out of _el barrio_ , fights for scholarships, fights for Harvard. There's always something more important, something more vital, and love goes to the bottom of his list. It's always hormonal lust and infatuation, it's never love.

He has plenty of time for that later in life, he thinks, when he has achieved the pinnacle of all he wants to achieve.

He's so casual towards relationships, so uncaring about love, that when love finally hits him in the form of Yelina Ramos, he's caught in the land of the unknown. Yelina is the first person that he could even to begin envisioning a future with. She's beautiful, smart, intelligent, and his match in every way.

But Yelina and him – they share one common trait that will soon be the death of their relationship.

Ambition.

He introduces her to Eddie and Alex after a blissful four months together, and Alex – tall, imposing, confident Alex, with his big plans for the community, for New York, for the country, draws her in. She hangs on to every single word Alex says, and Barba remembers smiling to himself, happy that she likes his best friends, and that they seem to like her, too.

How stupid and naïve he is.

They both tell him that they are sorry, that they never meant for it to happen, but it _just did_ , and he remembers feeling absolutely overwhelmed, as if the sheer weight of that devastation would crush him. He swallows his pride, he will not let them see how much they had hurt him, he will not let Alex know that he had won, and so he pasted a breezy smirk on his face.

 _It's fine,_ he says. _It wasn't serious anyway._

Eddie knew the truth, of course, but Barba never talked to him about it, and never allowed him to talk about it.

Life went on for them, and Barba discovers there is life after that. He's still young, what does he know about love, anyway? He's surviving, and he will continue to survive.

But he thinks about how needless it all is, love, relationships, marriage. He thinks about Yelina, and in the months after, he tries not think about her.

And Barba tells himself he will never fall in love again.

* * *

He's enjoying a heavy meal at Forlini's, cutting into his prime piece of steak and sipping his favourite scotch when she just shows up beside him.

He eyes her warily, and takes a drink. "How did you find me?"

"I'm a trained detective," she says easily, leaning on the counter. "Plus, I could smell the scotch." He gives her a look, and she starts talking about the case – of course, it's all about work between them – and he listens intently.

After they've discussed the specifics, the idea that has been brewing at the back of his mind takes on a more solid shape, and she probably needs to be sitting down when he throws it out there.

He pats the chair beside him. "Sit. Drink. Smile."

She gives him a look, and orders her wine, sitting down beside him.

Carefully, he explains his line of thought, and the look on her face tells him when he finishes is that she thinks he's crazy, and _that_ gets him all fired up.

"You're gonna argue that a gay man, married to another gay man, hates gays?"

Their eyes meet, and she's asking him a silent question. _Are you actually serious?_

He raises his eyebrow. _Do you think I couldn't do it?_

She shakes her head slightly, a wry smile on her lips, and he picks up his scotch glass. "Watch me."

* * *

It's not exactly eventful, their working relationship.

But if he looks back now, that might be the start of it all, that night at Forlini's. All relationships evolve with time, and theirs does, too. He finds her infuriating, truth be told, the way she relentlessly believes every victim to be faultless, the way she argues and pushes him for warrants and to take cases to trial. Barba doesn't like taking cases that he has a low probability of winning. That does not bode well for his reputation at all.

But she makes him do it, and it frustrates the _hell_ out of him. She challenges him like no one ever has before, and she does it continually. She's his match in every way. In a very different way that Yelina had been, but still.

He doesn't quite want to think about Yelina, though. And he doesn't want to put Olivia Benson in the same line of thought of Yelina Munoz (no longer Ramos, has not been for years).

* * *

There's nothing he can do, but wait. He's not a detective, he has no jurisdiction, no permission, to be running around with the squad, searching every street, every corner. But oh, how he wants to.

When he was told that she had been kidnapped, and by William Lewis, the bastard that he had failed to put away, the shock hits him like a punch to his gut. And then the guilt, the overwhelming guilt, sweeping through every fiber of his being.

"It's not your fault," Fin tells him. No one blames him, not outright, of course, but he feels Amaro's unspoken accusation, his eyes burning into his back.

And he blames himself, that he does.

He has not gone to church in months, has not prayed for a while, but he finds himself in front of one on the second day, and he walks inside.

And he prays.

He checks his phone every five minutes, even when he's in court. Feeling his pocket, hoping for a vibration, a message that will tell him she's been found, that she's all right.

Barba doesn't have a lot of friends, and he doesn't trust anyone easily, and for the first time, he admits to himself that Olivia has gotten to him. She's become someone that means something to him.

The message comes eventually, his phone beeps when he is going through the farce of reading a case file. He fumbles with his phone, swipes to read the message, and then he slumps back in his chair, feeling the relief washing over him in waves.

* * *

She throws herself back into work, the only way she knows how to regain normality and control. He watches her carefully, and he sees it, her pain, her struggle, but she does not talk to him, and he does not push her.

The only thing he can do for her right now, is to ensure the bastard rots in jail.

* * *

She discloses that she's having a personal relationship with Brian Cassidy, and he feels an inexplicable mix of feelings washing over him. There's a strange knot in his stomach that he doesn't quite know how to explain it.

It's concern, he decides. That she throws herself into a relationship so soon after her trauma with Lewis, he's just worried for her.

But she assures him that Cassidy is a good man (despite the fact that he's facing some pretty heavy accusations then), so he shrugs and nods.

It has nothing to do with him, anyway.

* * *

Like a tornado, Yelina sweeps into his life again, and then sweeps out quickly, leaving everything in ruins, leaving him to deal with the fallout that has been created because he's trying to protect an old friend out of loyalty.

She finds him in Forlini's, nursing his fourth scotch of the night. He looks at her, and looks away again, his attention solely on the glass of alcohol in his hands.

"Are you okay?" She asks quietly, her tone concerned.

"Yes," he grunted noncommittally, downing his scotch and signalling for another.

"Barba.."

"I'm fine, Liv," he said abruptly, avoiding her gaze. He can't keep looking at her, at that understanding expression, and at those eyes filled with compassion.

He's not going to break down over this.

* * *

The William Lewis trial is a severe test for her, and for him. He begs her to be honest from the word go, and she isn't, and that nearly derails everything. He can understand why she isn't honest, but the truth is, him understanding her reasons has no bearing on the matter. But he tries his best, he pushes with everything he has, and at the end of it, he can say that he has done it. He manages to put him away, not for life, but enough.

And then the bastard escapes, and throws everything into turmoil once again, but with some craftiness by Lieutenant Declan Murphy, and possibly a miracle by the higher powers, she emerges the victor from her battle with Lewis.

He has always known how strong she is – but throughout this trial, this whole ordeal, he realises that she isn't just _strong_ , she is incredible, indestructible, a true survivor, and she will not break.

He knows that she will not allow herself to break.

* * *

Time goes on as usual, and their lives slowly begin to slip back into some sort of normality. They resume their daily schedule of getting coffee, arguing, bickering, fighting, pushing each other to give in…it's as normal as it gets.

It's a slow realisation.

He knows that he is attracted to her – it's not hard to be - but attraction is something he can ignore. It's not like he has to act on it. There's even something pleasing about it, the way the heat flares and sparks between them, especially when she wants something that he is refusing to give, the rush he feels when he eventually wins. But there is more to it than just heat and fire in the midst of arguments.

There's the quiet time in between.

Cups of coffee bought from their favourite coffee cart in the mornings, conversations held among the constant background noises of Manhattan. The quietness of their respective offices as they worked late into the night over their cases. Knowing smiles shared oh so often, especially when they reach a consensus. The increasing frequency of dinners and night caps. The build-up of her texts in his phone. The short, random phone calls, just because.

Somewhere along the way, somehow, Olivia Benson has become his best friend.

* * *

She meets his mother.

And his mother, in her typical, forthright way, declares that Olivia drives him crazy. Just because he was complaining to her about work, the day before.

Her eyebrow quirks, and she smiles, and he quickly leads his mother away before she could say anything else.

It's not an easy time for him, he's trying to convince his grandmother that she needs 24-hour care, a notion that she is definitely most against. But facts are facts, and the fact _abuelita_ is no longer capable of looking after herself.

So, against her will, he finds her a nice, quiet retirement home, and asks his mother to start packing her things.

He reflects on aging and mortality as he sits across from her in her office, and on a whim, he asks her, "What are you going to be doing when you're eighty-five?"

She looks at him, and her lips lift in a smile. "Squabbling with you?"

He smiles back her. "Wouldn't that be nice?"

They share a laugh, and he thinks to himself, that really _would_ be nice, to have her by his side when they're both old and grey, and to be still fighting on a daily basis, and…

 _Oh_.

It hits him like a freight train.

 _I'm in love with her_.

* * *

It's not like there could actually _be_ anything between them. He has worked far too hard to get to where he is now, and so has she. He's in love with her, yes, but he wonders if he loves her enough to jeopardise what he has worked for since he was fifteen. He's gaining traction in Manhattan SVU, it's all going well, and a transfer would possibly undo all of that.

And she has become too important to him, he cannot lose her. If he takes the chance and it all goes to hell, then he loses her friendship.

He will have her in his life, not exactly in the way he wants, rather than not having her at all.

It's not as simple as a case of passion versus reason, the attraction of the forbidden versus what's expected of him – play by the rules, do not get involved with your colleague and your best friend. It would be easy, if that was all there is to it. In the days following, after recognising it for what it was, he had kind of hoped it would be. He had tried to rationalise it that way, to tell himself that it would fade and go away. It hadn't.

So no, it's not as simple as that.

It's different from the love he has for Yelina. She was his first love, and he had loved her, a long time ago, but he can barely remember that love now, except that he knows it was different.

His love for Oliva has grown from working with her, from knowing her, and from fighting the biggest battles beside her, _with_ her. It's a love born out of a form of intimacy that just seems to be only defined by him and her. It's a love born out of _knowing_ her, how she likes her coffee, how she likes her wine, and knowing the light in her eyes when she knows she's about to win, the set of her jaw when she knows she's losing.

So he's in love with her.

But he's not going to, not _able_ to, do anything about it.

* * *

She adopts a son. An adorable little boy called Noah. And that just solidifies it for him.

He's not someone who likes children. He doesn't know how to handle them, how to interact with them. Fatherhood is something that never appealed to him, ever, because he is his father's son, and therefore he thinks he can't possibly be a good father.

But she, she is born to be a mother. If life is such that it will not give her a biological child, at least it has blessed her with this precious child.

She tells him who Noah's father really is, and he can see how scared she is, that she will have to disclose this, and that the vile, repulsive man will have to be part of her baby's life.

He rests his hand on her forearm as she hugs Noah close to her, and he assures her that it isn't the case, she does not need to disclose, no one needs to know, ever. He'll keep this secret for her.

He'll protect her, and the child.

* * *

They have a moment.

It's after the harrowing incident where she was taken hostage, just because she was at the wrong place at the wrong time. At the time, he had fought to be there, to place himself outside the scene of the incident, in the police van, doing what he can.

Waiting.

When it was all over, he finds her sitting in her office in the precinct, in the dark. She has washed the blood off her skin, and changed into clean clothes, and she's cradling a cup of coffee while staring in the space.

He hesitates, and then he walks into her office. She looks up, and he sits down across from her.

"I'm fine," she says, a response to his unasked question.

Her hand is trembling as she puts down her coffee cup, and on a whim, he takes her hand, patting it lightly, his fingers entwining slightly around hers.

She gives him a shaky smile, but she does not pull away, and they sit there, in companionable silence, fingers linked together.

* * *

It's supposed to be a step forward, but they're moving backwards.

They seem to be clashing a bit more at work, the heightened tension and the palpable anger in their traded barbs. He wonders why is that, because he's still in love with her, and he thinks that should soften his stance towards her. Except it doesn't, because at the end of the day, work is work, and Barba is very good at compartmentalising his life.

When you had known someone for a good number of years, and adding on to the fact that you're in love with them, you can sense when they are hiding something. And he does, he feels that she's hiding something from him, but he doesn't how to ask without being too intrusive. Yes, she's his best friend, but there are still things that he does not quite know how to verbalise.

And then he finds out.

The jealousy and anger flood over him, as he stares at her in disbelief. It's so all complicated, all these feelings burning up within him.

Jealousy and devastation, because he's in love with her.

Anger and fury, because she has behaved unprofessionally.

Hurt, and albeit offended, because they're supposed to be best friends, and she did not tell him about this, something rather significant in her life.

 _Ed Tucker_ , of all people.

He wonders whether it has all been one-sided. She's his best friend, but he most certainly might not be hers. And of course, it's clearer than ever now, that those _other_ feelings are purely his own, and not shared by her.

He is being professional ( _unlike her_ ) when he reveals the relationship to 1PP; he has to, because she's on the verge of ruining the whole case. But he wonders if anger and spite had been part of that decision to disclose.

(He knows it is.)

* * *

He deals with it by telling himself he has no right to be jealous, and the truth is, he doesn't. He has no claim on her, he has no say in how her life should be. She doesn't owe him a thing. All he has was that one small moment in her office, a mere moment. There were no promises. They're colleagues, friends, and all of that only goes so far.

When she is reinstated, they try to go back to normal, but it doesn't really work. He finds himself avoiding her gaze at times, and it seems like she's avoiding his, too. Their shoulders don't brush as often, and there seems to exist a distance between them that wasn't there before. The texts don't stop, not really, but there's a laconic quality to them, as if they're texting for the sake of texting, pretending that everything is _fine_.

He's still in love with her, though.

He wonders though, how much unrequited love can a person carry, before he is crushed by the sheer weight of it?

* * *

It's her turn to be angry at him.

It's not like he deliberately hides it from her. With everything that had been going on, the escalating of the Munson case into them against the entire city, there are just more _pressing_ matters on his mind. He isn't scared of the threats, not exactly. When you grow up in the Bronx, there's actually very little that could intimidate you all that much.

But as the frequency of the hang up calls increased, he merely finds it as part of his duty to report it duly, and to the people he trusts, which would be Rollins and Carisi.

He leaves it to them to tell her, but then Sergeant Dodds gets caught in the line of fire, and dies in the line of duty. And with that, the threats suddenly become so small, so insignificant.

So, he doesn't tell her.

Still, she finds eventually out, and she's furious at him. She talks about trust and friendship, and he is unable to stop himself from snapping at her. He doesn't want to bring up Ed Tucker, but he's there, at the precipice, and he pushes him over, out in the open.

He regrets it once he does, as he sees something akin to comprehension dawning on her face, and he knows that _she knows_ , because she knows him too well, and he can't take it back now.

So he doesn't, and his unspoken feelings and his unspoken words hang in the air between them. She reaches out to him, and her hand nearly touches his when he takes a step back.

"I can't…" he pauses, and then chooses his words carefully. "You're with Tucker. I know, and I respect that."

"Rafael," she begins, and he stops her before she can continue. He doesn't want to hear it, words that will mean well, that will mean to reassure, but in reality, it's just making it harder than it already is.

"It's fine. It's okay."

She looks at him, conflicting emotions on her face, and then she takes a deep breath.

"Okay," she says steadily.

He has imagined this scenario many times, when she eventually does find out, because how long can he keep his feelings hidden, really? But now it's finally happening, it seems almost absurd that such an important conversation is over in a few words, over before it really even begins.

There's something almost poetic about it.

He takes the few steps that separates him and the door, and the silence that accompanies him is almost physical in nature. He closes the door – _his_ door – behind her, leaving her in his office.

He doesn't look back.

* * *

How was it, to be in love for so long, and not being able to do anything about it?

* * *

As mentioned earlier, Barba is very good at compartmentalising his life. He does exactly that, and work life is as normal as it can be. They circle it carefully, avoiding it.

The texts wane. The morning coffees, the dinners, the nightcaps, they dwindle.

If his love for her should have fade away, if it should have dissipated, like mist in the morning sun, then this would have been the time.

But it doesn't.

* * *

It's one of the many fundraisers the city holds a few times a year, and frankly, he isn't up to it, but he knows he must show his face, shake a few hands, smiling and making small talk.

She's there, too, and he sees her in glimpses, but mostly, he tries not to look for her. But whenever he sees her, the room seems to get a bit too small, too constricted.

He escapes it as soon as he can, and walks out to the balcony. He leans on the railing, taking in the sight of the city beneath him, it's noise, it's colour, it's vibrancy. He hears the door behind him opening and closing, and he doesn't need to turn around to know that it's Olivia.

She joins him on the balcony, settling beside him, and then she tells him, eyes fixed on the city below her. "I ended it with Ed."

He says nothing, offers no false words of comfort. It's irrelevant, he knows, she may have ended with Tucker, but it doesn't mean anything where him and her are concerned.

"It wasn't…I mean, I wanted it to be serious, but in the end, it just didn't fit. We tried to make it fit, but we couldn't."

He turns to look at her, his knuckles almost white from gripping the railing of the balcony. He knows the look on her face, he knows what she's about to say.

"Rafael, about what…about us. I'm…"

"Please," he interrupts. "Please don't apologise to me."

She's quiet, looking down at her own hands clenching around the railing, knuckles as white as his.

"I think," he begins carefully. "It's time for me to stop wanting."

She raises her eyes to his, meeting his gaze for the first time since this conversation started, and that is it. He has to stop wanting, and waiting, so he can move on.

Time stretches between them, like an eternity, before she finally nods. Leaning forward, she ghosts her lips against his cheek, a kiss that was so faint that it might as well have never happened, and she goes back to the party.

Barba remains standing on the balcony.

* * *

He does one of the hardest things he has ever done in his life. He lets Olivia go.

* * *

It's the one thing (no, he will not call it a mistake) he had done that would derail his career, destroy everything he had worked for and fought for. He knows that it doesn't matter that he did it for the right reasons, that the society is safe from a very bad predator because of this _thing_ he did. At the end of the day, right is right and wrong is wrong.

She confronts him, upset and anger rolling off her in waves, but he couldn't tell her. Not yet, he couldn't, even as she pushes, demanding to know, and then she says it, _it's personal now_.

He has been trying so hard to make everything impersonal, and she shatters all of it, right then and there.

 _Talk to me._

So he does, but not in the way she wants.

 _It's the best I can do._

They look at each other, their eyes heavy with meanings that they cannot, will not, convey, and then he looks away, and leaves her behind.

* * *

She finds out anyway, of course she would, and she goes to him again. And so, he tells her everything. He tells her the enormity of what he did, and that this might be it for him, for them.

He thinks maybe this is closure. Not in the way he wants, but still.

She takes his hand in hers, and squeezes it tightly, but she does not say a single word.

* * *

One month suspension.

The DA is enraged and infuriated but in the end, he understands that Barba did the only thing he could do in those circumstances. But he cannot let him go unpunished, so that's that, a month's suspension without pay, a black mark on his record, and he's free to return to the Manhattan SVU after that.

He exits the DA's office, knowing that he has escaped the guillotine. He recalls the moment he stands before the DA, expecting to be fired, expecting to be disbarred, only to get away with a light slap on the wrist. He still has the life he has ever known. The life he has ever wanted.

And then he thinks, _what if?_

There are things you might be willing to wait for your whole life, and it doesn't matter that you once said you would stop.

* * *

This is how it goes.

He shows up at her apartment that night, and she lets him in without a word, hanging up his jacket and pouring him a drink. Noah's asleep, and he's glad, because he needs this moment with her, and her alone.

He tells her the decision, and watches as relief washes over her features, and she slides closer to him on the couch, and hugs him. He tenses up, and she feels it, and she lets him go.

They sit together, side by side, the silence awkward but not entirely uncomfortable.

"Liv," he starts. "Do you know why I'm here?"

She looks at him resolutely. "I think I do. But you tell me."

"Do you remember that night, on the balcony?"

She nods. "Yes."

"I'm here because I'm in love with you," he says – and it's so good to be finally able to say it, to verbalise it, to throw it out in the open. "And I know we said…well, I said…that I should stop wanting, and waiting, but the truth is, I can't. Here we are, and I am still in love with you. I doubt it'll ever change. And I don't expect you to do anything about it, but I need to tell you this."

 _To tell myself this_.

"And if there's any chance that you would want this, want me, I'm here."

There. He's said it, and he feels an enormous weight being lifted off his shoulders. It's not as smooth as he had wanted it to be, but it's done, and all he can do now is wait.

She takes his hand in hers, her hand is warm and smooth and comforting, and then she answers him, her voice low. "Yes."

He feels his heart beating, so fast, that he thinks it might leap out of his chest. He hopes that this is not a dream, and that he has not simply imagined her saying yes.

"I think," she draws in a deep breath. "I think I'm in love with you, too. For so long, I never allowed myself to think of it, because it's _you_ , and for what it's worth, I can't lose you. But it doesn't go away."

 _If anything, it grows stronger, and stronger, until I can no longer ignore it_.

In that moment, with Olivia looking at him in a way that seems to abolish all distance, all uncertainties, all the time and years between them, it seems unimaginable to him that it hasn't happened yet.

So, he leans in, and he kisses her.

Her lips part under his, soft and warm, and they remain still a few seconds, mouths pressed together, hardly daring to move, hardly daring to believe that this is actually happening. Then she sighs, her hands moving up his back, and he deepens the kiss, one hand on the back of her neck, the other hand on her cheek, her tongue sliding against his. She's sweeter than he had imagined, and definitely more intoxicating.

They kiss, and kiss, and he can't get enough of her, now he knows how she tastes like, how she sounds like, those little moans and sighs between kisses. He's dizzy, drowning almost, and when he finally has to stop kissing her for the want of breathing, he rests his forehead against hers to steady himself.

They stay like this, foreheads pressed against each other, her hands holding his against her face, the breaths mingling together, and there's something about their half-embrace that's even more intimate than the kiss they just shared.

"Did you ever try," she murmurs, "to stop loving me?"

He looks at her, his fingers light on her cheek, and he answers her, and it's the most honest he has been in a while. "No. I never did."

She smiles, and she kisses him again, slow and sweet, and then she stands up, holding out her hand to him.

He takes it, and follows her into her bedroom.

* * *

Later that night, he watches her sleep, watches her chest rise and fall in even breaths. He keeps his arm around her waist, as if he's scared that she might disappear if he lets go.

He has had these dreams before, after all.

But she's there, with him, and they're together, as they should have been, from the very beginning.

He's in love with her.

And that's okay, because she loves him, too.


End file.
